Sound the Bugle
by abni
Summary: After The Reichenbach Fall, John's life is falling apart. He is barely holding on, and mysterious messages and a request from Mycroft aren't helping. Or are they?
1. Chapter 1

_A/N Seems my writing muse is finally back – hopefully to stay. I'm very sorry about the long absence. Thank you to everyone who's reviewed and favourited my stories – I promise I'll finish up my Supernatural ones soon! Extra special thank you to Muffy Morrigan for never-ending support and encouragement. _

_The story takes place after The Reichenbach Fall, so spoilers for that episode._

**Sound the Bugle**

**Chapter 1**

_Gunfire filled the air around him as he crouched in the arid ditch. The sun was pounding down on his head, making him wish for the blessed shadow of the truck they had been driving in moments before. The truck was now a burning wreck, blown to pieces by an IED, and most of the men with it. John could hear the moans of some of the survivors, but the never-ceasing fire from the enemy prevented him from going to their aid. He risked a quick glance over the edge of the ditch, relying on his visual memory to take in more information than his conscious mind could absorb in that fraction of a second he had before a bullet would find him. _

_Bodies, strewn across the dusty road, some of them hanging from the still-burning truck. He could smell the burning flesh as a gust of wind drove the smoke towards him. He had to struggle not to gag. Most of them had been frighteningly still, a couple were hiding behind the wheels of the truck, a hiding place that was getting harder and harder to maintain as the fire ate away at their cover and the heat drove them from safety. It was only a few yards to the ditch where John was – how he had ended up there, he wasn't really sure, but he figured maybe the blast had thrown him into the air and off to the side of the road when the bomb had gone off – but to get there, they had to cross the line of fire from the enemy hiding in the building across the street. _

_John risked another glance, catching the frightened eye of one of the soldiers. He knew they had little time left, the heat from the fire had started competing with the burning sun on his face. He pulled out his handgun and signalled to them that he would give them cover fire. He wished he had been carrying a machine gun or even a hand grenade, but being a doctor, his main priority was a variety of medical equipment which, he had to admit, wasn't that much use in a gunfight. _

_Of course, they hadn't exactly been expecting a roadside bomb or gunfight in this area, so close to the British base. It was supposed to be a routine patient transport – or as routine as those things were in a war zone. _

_Routine had been blown to heaven half an hour after they left the base._

_John closed his eyes and recalled the split-second memory of the house on the other side of the road. He had seen guns pointing out of two of the upper-story windows, none at the ground-floor ones. Taking a deep breath, he poked his head over the edge and nodded at the soldier at the car, then in a fluid movement raised his gun, shooting a rapid series of shots at first one window, then the other. The nearest soldier dove into the ditch next to him as soon as the fire from the windows ceased. John didn't spare him a second glance, but focused on changing the magazine of his gun and resuming his fire to let the other soldier get to safety. This time when he fired, he heard a yell from one of the windows, and the gunshots from the building stopped completely. In the sudden silence, broken only by the crackling from the burning truck, he could hear helicopters approaching in the distance. The smoke from the truck must have been seen from the base. _

_He turned to the soldier beside him and opened his mouth to issue an order, but the words stuck in his throat when he saw the man, fellow army doctor and long-term friend Richard Denby, covered in blood, pale red foam bubbling from his mouth. Frantically, he tore open the man's uniform to assess the damage to his chest, but Richard shook his head fractionally, his hand twitching against John's leg. John, understanding the gesture, grabbed his hand and held it as the last vestiges of life were drawn from his friend's shattered lungs._

_Suddenly the nightmare changed, and instead of Richard Denby dying in front of him, it was Sherlock, dying in a rainy London street, head smashed in from a four-story drop from the roof of St. Bart's. Sherlock's long, bony fingers were grabbing his hand, and as the light of life left his eyes, the words "I'm sorry" echoed through the dream. _

John woke with a scream, tears pouring down his cheeks as the nightmare called forth the emotions he so rigidly held in check when he was awake. Bloody traitorous subconscious, showing him just how weak he was. He fought to still his panicked breathing, forcing huge gulps of air past the knot that was tying his chest together. Breath by breath he got himself back under control, forcing the reality of the nightmare back into the chamber in his mind where it belonged, behind the door labelled "things we do not talk about, do not think about, and above all do not feel anything about".

He stared up at the bare ceiling, trying to rid himself of the emptiness that filled him every time he woke up. The emptiness that was a void where his best friend – and the purpose that friend had given him in his life – used to be.

Sherlock had been gone – he refused to think the word 'dead' – for four months. He hadn't been back to 221B Baker Street since that day, trusting Mrs. Hudson to take care of the flat until he was ready to go back, if that day should ever come. He filled his days with work at the clinic, taking as much overtime as he could and earning enough to pay his part of the rent as well as his new room. Mycroft had insisted on paying the other half of the rent out of Sherlock's estate for as long as John wanted to keep the flat.

He started when the alarm in his phone went off. He reached out for it on the bedside table, then swore when his trembling left hand fumbled it to the floor. The trembling had come back soon after _that day_, and was worse than ever. Some days he had to get one of the clinic nurses to help him give his patients injections, to his great chagrin.

Days like that made him feel more useless than ever.

His limp was back as well, giving his therapist a field day. He'd thought going back to her might help, but he'd been seeing her for a month and wasn't really feeling any better. She, of course, claimed it was due to his refusal to talk about _that day_. He knew she was probably right, but this was one thing she wasn't going to get him to talk about. Oh, he could tell her Sherlock was dead. But admit to her – to himself – how that made him feel, beyond the usual clichés about the six stages of grief?

Never.

Truth was, it felt like coming back from Afghanistan all over again. Mycroft had once told him that knowing Sherlock was like being at war in London. John knew now that was true. But when Mycroft claimed he was missing the war, it wasn't just the fighting or the action or the adrenaline he was missing. It was the purpose it gave him, doing what he was good at, with someone beside him he could trust and who valued his abilities and trusted him in return.

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, wiping away the drying tears the dream had caused and pushing the thoughts away. Then he rose to get ready for work.

XXXX

Twelve hours later he left the clinic to head back to his room – he refused to think of it as 'home'. As soon as he had stepped down the last of the stairs – his leg was being particularly annoying today – a sleek black car pulled up along him, the back door opening to reveal the slender form of Anthea.

"Hello, John," she said.

John hesitated for a second, then turned and started walking down the pavement towards the closest Underground station.

The car followed him at a steady pace. Anthea – or whatever her real name was, John had never found out – had closed the door and instead rolled down the window. "He wants to talk to you," she said.

John stopped, debating for a second whether what he was about to was sensible, then mentally shrugged, figuring _what the hell_. He stopped and turned to face the car. "You don't say. Thank you, my non-existent powers of deduction hadn't told me that. Well, you can tell your oh-so-powerful _master_," he put as much sneer in his voice at the word as he could, "that I am not his puppet nor am I his lackey who jumps when he says jump. I have nothing to say to him and I cannot for the life of me imagine what he would have to say to me. No, scratch that. Just tell him this, you can write it on your little phone..." He leaned close to the window. "Go...To...Hell."

With that he turned away and headed down the stairs to the tube station without looking back.

He spent the rest of the evening half expecting someone to barge into his room and abduct him to meet Mycroft in some obscure location, but nothing happened.

He did put his gun on the bedside table when he went to sleep, though. Just in case.

XXXX

John woke early the next morning after another terror-filled night, though thankfully without tears. He turned on the bedside lamp and rose to sit on the bed, rubbing his hands over his face to awaken himself. He reached for his cane, propped against the table...

And froze.

On the desk across the room, sitting neatly on top of his closed laptop was a skull. Not just any skull, he realised, but THE skull, Sherlock's skull – well, not HIS, technically, but the one that should, at that moment, have been sitting on the mantelpiece in their flat in Baker Street.

He grabbed his gun and rose silently to his feet, stepping carefully across the room to check whether anyone was hiding in the bathroom before walking to the desk to stare at the skull.

Then he walked back to the bedside table, picked up his phone and shot off a text to Mycroft.

_Is this some kind of joke? Threat?_

Within seconds he got a reply.

_I have no idea what you are talking about. It is 4.30 a.m._

_Mycroft Holmes_

John snapped a picture of the skull and sent it back.

_Not my doing _the reply said.

Before John could finish his reply, another text came in.

_Must say though, it does wonders for the place. _

John decided not answering was the better choice. He sat down at the desk, looking at the skull from all angles as if willing it to disclose who had put it there. He thought about calling Mrs. Hudson to ask if anyone had been to the flat, then figured she would probably be less pleased than Mycroft at being woken at that hour. And an angry Mrs. Hudson scared John more than Mycroft and all his minions ever could.

He finally picked up the skull to examine it closer, and as he did, a rolled-up piece of paper fell out of it. He studied the paper closely but could see no clue as to who could have put it there. The paper was held in place by an ordinary rubber band and was standard-issue white printing paper.

He took off the rubber band and unrolled the paper. "REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE" was printed on it. He frowned in puzzlement, then shook his head. If only Sherlock had been there, he would've been able to explain not only _why _but also _who _and even _when _the skull had been placed there.

"Remember who you are". He huffed bitterly; if only he knew who he was. Sure, he had titles to his name, he had roles he played, mainly at the clinic, but surely that couldn't be what was meant? He looked at the paper and rubber band again, both seemed ordinary, everyday standard issues that could be found in most households. Not even the chosen font told him anything, unless being the standard of standard in itself was a clue... He shook his head, deciding to let the mystery rest for the day.

Though he did check the door to his room (locked) and brought the gun into the bathroom with him while he showered and got ready for work. Just in case.

_To be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who's read, reviewed and put me on alerts :) _**  
**

**Sound the Bugle**

**Chapter Two**

He took a roundabout route to the clinic, not completely trusting Mycroft not to try anything again, but he got there without incident. Heading through the lobby to his office, he nodded good morning to Sarah and a couple of the other doctors from the clinic. They had learned not to expect much conversation from him anymore; after a few attempts from Sarah to get him to talk shortly after Sherlock's death, they had given up trying – though from the looks he sometimes caught from them, he figured they were only biding their time before they cornered him. They were welcome to try, though. As long as he did his duty and took care of his patients in a professional manner – albeit a few had complained about "a certain coldness" of late – they couldn't criticize his work in any way.

He opened the door to his office, bracing himself for another long day of dealing with his patients' minor and major ailments, but what he saw when he switched on the overhead lights made him swear out loud.

In the middle of his desk, placed neatly on top of the files he had left there the day before, was the skull.

"John?" Sarah's worried voice sounded behind him.

"Oh, sorry, just... Nothing, it's nothing. Um, cleaners left a mess on my desk." He quickly walked into the office, closing the door behind him to avoid further questions.

A moment later, the door opened again and Sarah stepped into the room behind him. "John, look..." Whatever she had been about to say remained unsaid as she caught sight of the skull. "That... That's a _real _skull!"

"I would think so, yes," John replied resignedly.

Sarah looked at him, a mixture of horror and suspicion on her face. "You wouldn't happen to know who put it there, would you?"

"No, I..."

"Oh my god, please tell me it isn't..." All colour drained from her face as the thought that it might be Sherlock's (_actually _Sherlock's) skull occurred to her.

"No, no... God, no, it's old, look at the colour," John quickly reassured her.

She looked around the office, John could practically see her train of thought move from _what_ it was to the next question: _how. _He braced himself as she took a deep breath.

"How did it-"

"I'll call the police, shall I?" John interrupted her.

"Yes, yes, please do. I'll have one of the others take your first patients, let me know when you've got that... that _thing _sorted out." She turned and left the office without another word, slamming the door a little as she closed it.

John just stood there for a moment before he sighed and moved to the desk. He sat down and picked up the skull, and just like earlier that morning in his room, a rolled-up piece of paper fell out of it.

"YOU'RE A SOLDIER" it said.

John frowned. To most people, he hadn't been a soldier for almost two years. Since he had been invalidated home from Afghanistan, he had mostly been seen as a doctor, and on occasion as merely 'the Freak's colleague', as Sally Donovan had taken to calling him. Soldier... Only Mycroft occasionally referred to his army past, as had Sherlock when their investigations called for him to pull rank on some poor soul that Sherlock wanted out of the way.

He looked at his watch, then pulled out his phone and dialled Lestrade, figuring the Detective Inspector would have his phone open even if he wasn't at the Yard yet.

"John?" Lestrade's voice sounded sleepy.

"Hey, Greg, sorry to call you at this hour, but something's come up." John suddenly wasn't sure how to explain it all to the DI, they hadn't talked for getting on for three months.

"What's happened? Are you ok?" The policeman was all business now.

"Yes, yes, it's... Well, something weird is happening. Someone has been breaking into my room and my office at the clinic and leaving, well... Leaving Sherlock's old skull and some strange messages for me."

"His _skull? _And messages?"

"Yes. Can we meet? I... I know it's a lot to ask, but could you come down to the clinic?"

"Sure, I'll be there right away. Do you want me to bring Anderson and the team?"

"No, no, there's no obvious forced entry, so there probably won't be anything to find. I just..." John paused, in reality he just needed someone to talk to, someone who would understand.

"I'll see you soon," Lestrade said in tacit understanding, then hung up.

John leaned back in his chair with a sigh, staring at the skull, wondering who could be behind it. His best bet was still Mycroft, though he couldn't guess why, unless it was some weird plot to get him to talk to him.

It was only five minutes later that the office intercom buzzed and Sarah announced Lestrade's arrival. John rose to shake hands with the policeman when he entered the office, noticing a few more lines on the man's face than the last time they had met. Lestrade had been under heavy investigation after Sherlock's "fall", but somehow – John strongly suspected Mycroft's invisible hand moving behind the scenes – he had come out of it job and rank intact.

"Greg, nice of you to come. I... frankly, I have no idea what's going on. Mycroft says he isn't involved, but God knows what he's up to when no one's watching..."

Lestrade held up a hand to stop John's speech. "John, calm down. Sit down and tell me what's going on, from the beginning."

John sat down behind his desk and gestured to the skull. "This morning when I woke up, it was on my desk. I left to come here, and when I arrived, it was here." He realised his left hand was trembling and hid it under the desk.

Lestrade bent down to look closely at the skull, then picked it up. "You're sure it's Sherlock's?"

John nodded. "I've handled that thing enough to know it. It's missing a tooth, I knocked it out..." He suddenly stopped in embarrassment, realising the DI probably didn't need to hear that particular story. Needless to say, Sherlock hadn't been pleased when he discovered the missing tooth – which was, of course, about two seconds after John had accidentally knocked it to the floor.

John noticed a sad smile on Lestrade's face when he looked at the skull, then the policeman's professional mask was back in place.

"The messages?"

John handed Lestrade the "YOU'RE A SOLDIER" message. "The other said 'REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE'" he added.

"Do you think it's a threat?" Lestrade asked.

"Frankly, I don't know what to think. It could just be someone pulling a prank, but why? 'Remember who you are' – why would anyone find that amusing?" John shrugged.

Lestrade looked the paper over, then walked around the office, looking at the windows and door. "No sign of forced entry?"

"None, neither here nor at my room. Christ, I didn't even hear whoever it was come in last night..." John shook his head, realising he had probably been so caught up in his nightmares he hadn't heard anything above his own screams.

"Any security cameras inside or outside the building?"

"No, we've been talking about getting some put up, but..." John threw his hands in the air in frustration.

Lestrade looked at him, a worried frown on his face. "John..." He paused as if weighing his words. "How are you holding up?"

"Me? I'm fine. Got a lot of work here, it's going well." He cleared his throat. "I'm fine," he repeated with a nod.

If anything, the DI's frown deepened. "John, if this..." he gestured to the skull on the desk, "if this is meant to be a prank or something more serious, you need to be on your guard. Someone might be trying to push you..."

John went still for a moment. "You mean... No, I'm no one, why would anyone...? No." He shook his head in denial.

"I'm not saying it is, I'm just saying, _someone _is playing tricks with your mind, John, and until we figure out who it is, you need to watch your back. I wish I could assign someone to help you, but there is little to go on in police terms..."

John looked at him in puzzlement, a quick frown creasing his forehead, and then he cleared his throat again. "Yes, yes, of course, I will. I don't think, though, but yes, of course."

Lestrade looked at him in silence for a moment, then nodded and held out his hand in goodbye. When John grabbed it, Lestrade held on to John's hand for a moment. "John, if I could, I would have you in to help us now and again, but the way things are..."

John flashed him a quick sad smile. "I understand. Don't worry, they're keeping me busy here. On the bright side there's less risk of getting shot here. Fewer dead bodies, too, you know."

Lestrade nodded. "Well, let's keep in touch, let me know if anything else happens. And remember what I said about watching your back, ok?"

"I will. You too," John shot back.

"I will." The Detective Inspector walked to the door, then paused before he opened it. "I miss him," he said bleakly, then left without another word.

The rest of the day passed without incident. John had to reassure the other doctors that "the police are on the case" to dispel their worry that someone had been in their offices, and one of the most recent employees shot him a lot of sideways glances when she thought he wasn't looking. John figured she might be a regular reader of Kitty Riley's column. He decided against trying to right her perception – or throwing her out a window in frustration.

When he left the building after his workday – skull in a plastic bag in his hand to avoid a repeat of the morning's inexplicable skull teleportation – the sleek black car was waiting for him, Anthea holding the door open.

"You just won't take a no, will you?" he said in apparent resignation and stepped towards the car. When he was about to bend down to enter the backseat, he fumbled his cane and dropped it next to the rear wheel. "Sorry, sorry," he said, then bent down to retrieve it, hiding his hands from Anthea so she couldn't see the dagger he pulled from his new-and-improved cane, nor his quick movements as he stabbed the tyre twice, venting a little of the day's pent-up frustration.

Then he rose to face Anthea, pulling up in his best captain's stance. "Tell your boss he can phone me, on my _phone_, if he wants to talk to me. I presume if he has lost his own, he could always borrow yours. I'm sure you have my number on that thing, along with everything else."

With that, he turned and walked away, trying hard to stifle a grin when he caught sight of the reflection of her stunned expression in the windowpane of a shop.

His good mood lasted until the moment he stepped over the threshold of his room. Propped in his armchair was Sherlock's Union Jack pillow, a note pinned to it with a safety pin.

He put the bag with the skull on his desk, but before he could walk across the room to read the note on the pillow, his phone beeped.

_I could sue you for vandalism._

_Mycroft Holmes_

John didn't waste a second in replying.

_I could sue you for B&E_

With a resigned sigh he walked over to the pillow, snapping a picture of it with the note and sending it to Lestrade before unfastening the safety pin.

"THE BATTLE ISN'T OVER" the note said.

In a sudden blast of fury he crumbled up the paper and threw it across the room, the pillow following soon after. How dared someone play games with him like this, breaking into his room, his office... The flat in Baker Street. He suddenly realised that calling Mrs. Hudson had completely slipped his mind (he didn't like to consider it a subconscious slip of mind; the regular phone calls and trips to the cemetery with their landlady were a challenge to his strict control of his thoughts and emotions) and hurriedly grabbed for his phone, fumbling it and almost dropping it on the floor, suddenly afraid of what might have happened to her if – no, _when _– someone had been in the flat.

To his great relief she picked up after only two rings.

"John, dear, how are you?"

"Me? Oh, I'm fine, just fine. How are you, Mrs. Hudson?" John suddenly hesitated, realising he might scare her unnecessarily if he told her someone had been into their rooms.

"Oh, you know how it is, the old hip's playing up. And it's so quiet here without you boys. You wouldn't think it, but some days I even miss poor Sherlock's explosions and shootings. Why, just this morning I thought I was hearing ghosts; such a noise up there, but when I went up there, it was just someone who had thrown a brick through one of the windows - who would do such a thing, I wonder? - so of course I had to call in a glazier, dear, I hope you don't mind?"

John's mind was racing. If someone had gained access to the flat posing as a glazier, that would explain the pillow, but the skull had appeared before that. He suddenly realised Mrs. Hudson had paused, waiting for his answer.

"Yes, yes, of course it's fine, Mrs. Hudson."

"Are you okay, dear? You should come back here, you know. I don't like to think of you all alone in your room. You are making sure to eat, now, dear, and have your tea?"

John sighed silently, Mrs. Hudson's requests for him to come back were becoming more and more frequent, and while he realised she must be feeling lonely, too - especially if she was missing Sherlock's rather destructive activities in her building - he still couldn't bear the thought of going back. Not yet. Maybe one day, he told himself, though he wasn't quite sure he believed it.

"John, dear?"

"Yes, sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I am having my tea, don't you worry. I'll see you on Sunday, then, usual time?"

"Yes, dear. You take care now, you hear me?"

"You too, Mrs. Hudson." He hung up, tossed his phone on the bed then placed his head in his hands. Part of him wanted to go back, to find comfort in the familiar surroundings and Mrs. Hudson's fussing, but he knew the emptiness would be more than he could stand.

Not to mention the memories.

When he was being honest to himself, doctor to doctor, he knew he wasn't in a very healthy state of mind; rather the reverse, in fact.

He just didn't seem to be able to muster the energy to care.

He looked at the crumbled-up paper across the room. "THE BATTLE ISN'T OVER". He smiled bitterly.

For him it was.

A knock on the door made him jump. He picked up his gun from the bedside table and walked over to stand beside the door. "Who is it?"

"It's me, Greg," the familiar voice said.

John unlocked and opened the door, then stepped back, gesturing with the gun to invite Lestrade into the room. The DI lifted an eyebrow at the gun, then nodded in approval.

"I see you took my advice. Good," he said.

John shrugged, half embarrassed, and placed the gun on the desk, wiping his hands on his jeans in a nervous gesture.

Lestrade looked the small room over, then focused on the pillow in the corner.

"I found out how they got it, whoever they are." John told him about the phone call to Mrs. Hudson.

Lestrade picked up the pillow and the crumbled paper, placing both on the desk and smoothing out the note.

"It was here when you got back from work?"

"Yes."

"How about the neighbours? They seen anything?"

"Even if they did, they wouldn't tell." John shrugged. He had chosen the place for several reasons, the lack of contact in the building with the others being the main one. Although the uproar over the 'disclosure' about Sherlock and his death had blown over, he was still occasionally pounced on by members of the unforgiving public.

"Did you know this pillow saved his life once?" Lestrade suddenly said with a wry smile.

John frowned then shook his head. "No?"

"Yeah, he had been helping me with a case. We'd been taking down a ring of cocaine pushers and one of them decided to retaliate. He's somehow got into Sherlock's flat – not of course the one in Baker Street, but the one before that – and when we got there, he attacked us with a flick-knife, but Sherlock just grabbed the pillow when the guy came at him, somehow managed to spear the pillow on the guy's knife and calmly knocked him out with a right hook." The policeman turned the pillow over to show John where a tear had been carefully mended. "My wife did that afterwards," he added.

John smiled, then grew serious again. "I don't understand any of it. Why the skull, the pillow, the messages? Is it just someone messing with me, or is there another meaning? I wish..." He realised he had been raising his voice as he spoke and stopped in embarrassment.

Lestrade sighed. "Me too." He paused. "I'll ask one of our patrols to swing by here and the office when they go on their rounds tonight. Maybe they'll spot something, or someone."

"Thank you. If there's anything I can do..."

"Just take care of yourself, John. And... don't do anything rash, ok? If you hear or see something, give me a call, don't go out on your own."

"No, no, of course not," John replied. They both knew it was a lie.

"Well, I'll be off then. Give me a status in the morning?"

"I will." John shook Lestrade's hand and let him out the door, locking it after him. With an afterthought, he pulled the chair from the desk over in front of the door. If nothing else, he would hear it if anyone tried opening it.

Then he settled in to wait, the TV turned on but the sound low to let him hear if anyone approached the door. His gun was beside him and he had made a pot of coffee (no sugar) to help keep him awake. It reminded him of long-ago vigils in Afghanistan, knowing there was an enemy out there, waiting for a chance to slip by your defences and do God knows what to you. He was almost hoping for something like that, something that would let him vent some of the anger and frustration and, if he was being honest with himself, _desperation_ of the last few months.

Something that would let him go into battle once more.

And if he should lose that battle in the end, well, there wouldn't be that many who would care.

_To be continued_


	3. Chapter 3

**Sound the Bugle**

**Chapter Three**

The night passed uneventfully. John nearly dropped off a few times, but he managed to stay awake by using every army trick in the book. A couple of times he thought he heard someone outside the door, but both times it turned out to be just someone from the building coming home late.

When dawn broke, he quit his vigil and went to get ready for work. When he opened the door to leave, he more than half expected there to be another surprise for him on the doormat, but there was nothing there, nor was there anything on his desk when he got to the office.

After the first few of the day's patients, John could feel the sleepless night catching up with him. He fought to stay awake, forsaking his usual tea for coffee in the hope that would help keep him awake, but in the end he couldn't fight it anymore and his head dropped into his hand on his desk.

And his mind dropped straight into another nightmare.

_He was in the cemetery, standing in front of Sherlock's gravestone. Grief was tearing through him, but not even here he let himself cry. At least not until Mrs. Hudson had left him. _

"_You... You told me once that you weren't a hero. Um... There were times I didn't even think you were _human_, but let me tell you this: you were the best man and the most human... human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so..." He paused and walked to the black gravestone, reaching out to touch it in a futile wish that he could reach his friend. _

"_I was so alone, and I owe you so much." He took a deep breath, trying to force the tears away. _

"_Okay." He turned and started to walk away but before long he turned back. _

"_No, please, there's just one more thing, okay, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't... be...dead." His voice broke on the last word. "Would you do...? Just for me, just stop it..." He gestured to the grave, fighting to keep back the tears. "Stop this."_

_Then he took a deep breath, putting on his soldier face, getting himself under control and standing to attention at the grave. He nodded in salute and snapped around, walking away with a controlled gait. _

_Until the ground suddenly started shaking underneath his feet. _

_He turned around in horror to see Moriarty rising from underneath Sherlock's gravestone, cackling with high-pitched laughter. _

"_Hello, John, m' lad. Did you miss me?" Moriarty's face split in a cruel grin. _

_In an instant, he was behind John, talking into his ear in his sing-song voice. The scene had changed and he was standing in a seemingly pleasant flat, a gun pressed to his forehead as two of Moriarty's helpers tied a waistcoat filled with explosive around him. "Imagine what Sherlock will think when he sees you... He'll be soooo disappointed in you. Until of course he realises that you aren't a supervillain, you're more like... bait."_

A hand on his shoulder woke John, for a moment he was caught between dream and reality and every instinct in him screamed to _get away, get away, run to save your life! _and he pushed the person away and started scrambling away out of his chair and towards the door, only his leg gave out on him and he ended up face-first on the floor.

"Oh my god, John, are you ok?" Sarah's worried voice said above him.

John took a moment to catch his breath, then slowly turned over and rose, helping himself up by taking hold of the corner of his desk. He could feel his face burning with embarrassment.

"Yes, I'm fine. Sorry, bad dream." He cleared his throat, blinking to chase the feelings from the dream – grief, horror, soul-wrenching dread – away from his mind.

"John..." Sarah paused as if looking for the right words. "You seem a little stressed... More than usual, I mean. I didn't mean that, I –" She stopped, making a frustrated little gesture with her hands.

"What are you trying to say?" John was all business now, his voice steady.

"Maybe... Maybe you should take some time off. Until all this is sorted out?" She spoke quickly as if forcing the words out.

"Are you sending me home?"

"No, John, please...I'm worried about you. We all are."

John smiled, a small, bitter smile. "Don't worry, I'm fine." He wasn't sure he himself believed it, and he could see that he didn't convince her either.

"No, John, you're not, and you know it. You're far from fine." This time she looked him straight in the eyes.

He wondered for a moment whether he should argue with her, then realised that would probably just strengthen her conviction, since they usually never argued. He pursed his lips, then sighed. Why should he think he could function in a job anyway, the way he was messed up at the moment?

"Ok, I'll go home."

She looked relieved and he realised part of her worry was for herself and the practice as well. With him gone, so was the risk of getting another break-in. At least that's what he would have thought, had he been in her shoes.

He reached for his cane and walked around his desk to gather the papers on top of it and threw them in the top drawer. Then he took down his coat from its peg on the wall and shrugged it on without a word.

"John..."

"Don't. It's fine." He smiled at her briefly before walking out the door, forcing the pain in his leg away as he strode through the waiting room and out the front door, ignoring the stares of the patients and other doctors there.

To his surprise, there was no black car waiting for him outside the office, but he supposed there was someone somewhere watching him, either one of the other people walking down the street or Mycroft from his _lair_, as Sherlock had liked to call it, with his easy access to London's myriad of security cameras. John resisted the urge to give all the cameras he noticed on his way to the underground station the bird.

On his way home he went by the local store to pick up groceries to tide him over for the next few days, canned beans and tea being the main ingredients. He walked slowly up the stairs to his room, hating the balancing act between cane and grocery bags. Somehow he never quite got used to handling both without getting them entangled. He fumbled his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door, pushing it open with his elbow as he stumbled into the room.

Someone was there.

He dropped the bags, cans of bean clanging as they hit the floor, and pulled out his gun. "Turn around very slowly," he said to the black-clad figure standing at the window, back turned to John.

"I must say, it's a rather bleak place you have here, John," Mycroft said as he turned around, hands clasped behind his back.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"I needed to talk to you, and you... _resisted..._ my offers of a ride," Mycroft said, sitting unbidden in the chair by the desk. John remained standing, gun still out though now pointing at the floor.

"I have nothing to talk to you about." The still-burning anger at how Mycroft had provided Moriarty with the information that had led to Sherlock's death almost blinded him, but he took a steadying breath to get himself under control.

"I think you do. Won't you sit?" Mycroft flipped a hand towards the bed.

"I'd rather stand, thank you."

Mycroft gave a small indifferent shrug. "Suit yourself. It's your home," he said, trying to hide the sneer in his voice.

"Yes, it's my room, and I don't remember inviting you in," John said, his voice carefully level.

"I need you."

Of all the things Mycroft could have said, that was the last John had expected.

"What?" He frowned in puzzlement.

"I need you," Mycroft repeated.

"You... need... me?" John tried hard to not laugh at the ridiculous notion.

"Yes," Mycroft replied, primming up his lips as if he had a bad taste in his mouth.

"And... why do you need me? What do you need me for?"

"We think we have found Moriarty's last man here in London. We need you to identify him for us before we... take measures." Mycroft folded his hands over the handle of his umbrella.

"Why do you think I should be able to recognise him? I never saw any of them," John replied.

"We have reason to believe he took part in your... abduction last year."

_Rough hands held him still while the waistcoat was tied around him, coarse laughter echoing in the room as two of Moriarty's helpers tied him into a costume of death. Although he had been blindfolded at the time, their voices had resounded through his dreams many times since that day. _

"Where is he?"

"So you _are _interested?"

"I didn't say that."

Mycroft flashed him a knowing smile. "Your hand, as usual, betrays you."

John couldn't keep the reply back. "Better my hand than my brother."

Mycroft breathed a slow breath out his nose then continued as if nothing had happened. "He is currently staying in a hotel in Kensington. He has, we believe, spent the last few months on the Continent going around to Moriarty's various contacts there. We think he might be about to resurrect at least part of Moriarty's old network of crime."

Realisation dawned on John in a flash. "You're going to take him out."

"Yes. Do you have a problem with that?"

John opened his mouth to agree, then noticed that Mycroft was looking straight at his gun, a knowing look in his eyes.

"Lives may be at stake, John. He may even have the old woman's life, and those of her neighbours, on his hands."

John knew he had lost the fight. He walked over to the bed and placed the gun on the bedside table before sitting down with a sigh. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just identify him, nothing more. We'll place you in a room in the hotel where you can see and hear him, and all you have to do is tell us whether it's a go or no-go."

John thought for a moment. "No," he then said.

"No?"

John almost laughed at the surprised look on Mycroft's face.

"No. If I am to do this, I want to be part of it all the way. I will not pull the trigger, but I want to be there to see it happen." Where the sudden need to be there came from, he wasn't sure, but suddenly he needed the closure it would give him. Somehow knowing Moriarty's gang would be destroyed once and for all made him feel that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock's sacrifice hadn't been in vain.

Mycroft smiled. "I wasn't expecting anything less," he said, his voice filled with satisfaction.

"What do you mean?" John grew still again.

"A little poking in the right direction, and Captain John Watson is back, prepared to do what it takes."

"It _was _you." John had a violent urge to hit the man.

"Not the first time. I just took the idea a little further, that's all. I particularly enjoyed the look on your face when you came to the office and found the skull there."

"Get out."

"Pardon?"

"Get out," John repeated, anger flowing off him in waves.

"John..."

"OUT!" John put all the command authority he could muster into the command.

Mycroft smiled his twisted little smile, then rose and strolled out the door, carefully stepping over the pile of grocery bags still sitting on the floor just inside the door. "I'll send Anthea to get you when it's time."

John slammed the door in his face in reply, barely containing his anger at Mycroft's intrusions – into his room, his office and, most importantly, the flat in Baker Street. He had no right to be in any of those places, and the thought of the man roaming through the flat, looking for something he thought would be appropriate for messing with John's head... John determined to knock him down the next time he saw him, and to hell with the consequences.

_To be continued_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Here it is, the final chapter. Thank you so much to everyone who's read, reviewed and put me on alerts! Hope you enjoy this last instalment too :)_

**Sound the Bugle**

**Chapter Four**

John stood in the middle of the floor, breathing deeply for several minutes, before he started to pick up the bags of groceries to put them in the kitchen cupboards. The kitchen was really just a corner of the combined bedroom-living room of the place, but he didn't need much else. It wasn't like he had company often, or needed space to store things.

He had just put a plate of beans in the microwave when his phone beeped with a text.

_New development. Subject about to move. We need to act NOW. Car is waiting._

_Mycroft Holmes_

John resignedly switched off the microwave, picked up his gun and jacket and walked out to where the car was waiting outside the building. He wasn't really surprised that Anthea paid him even less attention than usual; he figured her recent failure to get him to come along to meet Mycroft hadn't really sat well with her boss.

They had been driving for half an hour through dense London traffic when she put down her phone and reached for something in the compartment beside the door.

"I need you to put this on."

John realised what she was holding out was a black cloth of some kind.

"What, I'm to be blindfolded?" He couldn't quite keep the resigned incredulity out of his voice.

"Yes," was all she said.

John shook his head but reached for the cloth. When he unfolded it, he realised it was a black balaclava, though without holes for his eyes. He wondered for a fleeting moment if this was another of Mycroft's tricks, then decided he had nothing to lose and put it on.

The car kept going for what he thought was ten minutes more, then it turned away from the traffic and onto a gravel road, and a few moments after he could hear from the acoustics around him that the car had entered a large open building. When it stopped, the door beside him was opened and rough hands pulled him from the car. After a few stumbling steps, he realised the floor was even and he was able to more or less keep up with the people holding each of his arms. After a short walk, they stopped and pulled off the balaclava. John blinked a few times to let his eyes adjust to the light, then looked around him.

He was in a changing room with several other men in various stages of putting on battle gear – black clothing comfortable for movement, shoes with soft soles for walking silently over floors, bulletproof vests, various weapons and holsters. Mycroft Holmes was leaning against one of the walls, the ever-present umbrella in his hands.

"I see you're not taking any chances," John said drily.

"Of course not," came the short reply.

John looked around the room again. "So... What do I do?"

"You will be on Team One, under the command of Wolf One. I hope I can trust you to follow his orders." The last part was said somewhere between a question and an order.

"Of course," John snapped, military-style, though purposely omitting the usual 'sir'.

Mycroft smiled and nodded to one of the men closest to them. "All yours then, Wolf One." With that he turned and walked out the door.

The man Mycroft had called 'Wolf One' was already in full battle gear, balaclava hiding his face except his eyes and mouth, black clothing and weaponry giving him a sinister appearance. He looked at John for a moment as if – John felt – gauging his worth. John found himself standing to attention as if under military inspection.

"Spider One tells me you can look after yourself, take orders and know your way around a gun," the man said.

"Yes, sir," John snapped in reply.

The man looked him in the eyes for a long while, then nodded as if pleased with what he saw there. "Weapon?"

John took out his gun and handed it to the man who looked it over, then handed it back with another nod of approval. "Need anything else?"

"No, sir."

"Your gear's over there. We leave in ten."

With that the man left him to go talk to some of the other men in the room. John walked to the pile of clothes the man had indicated and started changing, growling internally at the fact that everything seemed to be in perfect size for him – was there anything Mycroft _didn't _know about him? He had to admit to himself that it felt good to be getting ready for battle again, even though he knew he only had a minor role to play. He wondered for a moment why Mycroft had what looked like two teams – a total of ten people – getting ready for taking down one man, but figured the man – _"Spider One, indeed_," John thought– wasn't taking any chances where getting rid of Moriarty's gang was concerned.

When the ten minutes were up, the two teams filed out the door and straight into two vans parked right outside the rooms. The doors had barely closed when they vans took off.

John looked over the other four men, noting the numbers on each man's sleeve. He figured they denoted the men's code names as the man Mycroft had called 'Wolf One' had a large '1' sewn into each sleeve. John had the number '5', so he figured he was 'Wolf Five', a notion that was confirmed a moment later as the team leader started to speak.

"Team Wolf, as you know our job is to ID the target – Wolf Five, that is your job." At this, the man looked at John who nodded in confirmation. "When we arrive at the RV, we'll go in through the service entrance and up to a room on the same floor as our target. Here, we'll have eyes and ears on the target, and when Wolf Five gives us confirmation of ID, we will enter and extract the target. We have intel that the target may have company, if this is the case we may have to wait until he's alone. Team Snake will be our backup and cover the elevator, stairs and fire escape staircase in the unlikely event the target should evade us. Remember, our main goal is to extract the target alive, but should there be an incident, you are authorised to shoot to kill if necessary. Any questions?"

The three other men shook their heads, but John raised his hand. "What about alternative escape routes? Like the window?"

The team leader huffed in derision. "The room's on the seventh floor. I don't think the window will be a problem, Wolf Five."

John debated arguing his point – he of all people knew that _anything_ could be a problem when dealing with Moriarty's people – but then figured if Mycroft's men were anything like the man himself, they wouldn't listen anyway. If the man did manage to escape, at least he'd made his point.

They arrived at the hotel in Kensington soon after. The vans had pulled up close to the service entrance, allowing them to jump out of the car and get inside within seconds. They were ushered through the kitchen and up service stairs narrow enough that it only allowed one to pass at a time. At the seventh floor the team leader halted them, speaking silently into his microphone before ushering them out into the hallway and into a room close to the door.

In the room, two men were sitting in front of several computer screens that showed various parts of the hotel. The main screen showed a view of a room with two men in it, one sitting in an armchair and the other moving around, packing things into two large suitcases. John was pulled forward and asked to sit in one of the chairs by the screens. One of the men handed him a set of headphones. "You know what to do," he said.

John put on the headphones, hoping he could give them the answer they were hoping for. He didn't recognise either man in the room by sight, but then he hadn't really seen much until he had been let out at the swimming pool; Moriarty's men had made sure he had been blindfolded all the time he wasn't in a drugged sleep.

It took a few moments before the men spoke – the one in the chair sat silently, watching the other throw things into his suitcases with increased force. Finally, the man packing growled at the other. "You could help, you know, instead of just sitting there on your bleeding arse."

The voice made John's skin crawl. The sound of it spoke straight to his subconscious with visions of a painful, fiery death for him and his friend. He nodded at the man beside him to confirm that the man was indeed one of Moriarty's henchmen, then froze as the other replied.

"I'm not the one who messed up and got recognised. I just came to warn you that you've blown your cover. Lucky for you, _he's _not in charge anymore, or you would've already been dead."

_He was walking down the street, heading towards the underground to go to Sarah's, but the weather was dry so he decided to walk for a while instead. He wasn't really paying attention to where he was going, so when a light van pulled up next to him, driver leaning out the window with a map in his hand, he barely looked at the man, just listened to the question and started pointing at the map, when he was grabbed from behind and pulled into the van, drugged cloth held over his mouth, putting him out in seconds. _

The flashback occurred in an instant, a jumble of noise and images flashing through John's mind, but there was no doubt afterwards, the other man was the driver who had asked for directions.

John realised the others were staring at him. He wondered if he'd said anything during his brief blackout; he hoped not.

He cleared his throat, then said, "We need to take them both."

Silence greeted him. He opened his mouth to repeat the statement, when Wolf One spoke up.

"We only have evidence linking the one to Moriarty," he said, a slight sneer in his voice.

"They were both on the crew that... I encountered," John retorted, steel in his voice.

"You do realise that you are potentially giving that man a death sentence."

John looked the man straight in the eye. "He is Moriarty's man."

The team leader looked at him for a moment, then clicked his microphone. "Wolf Five confirms both are targets, repeat, _both _are targets." He paused, listening to a reply. "Yes, confirmed, both," he repeated.

John looked back at the screen. The man who'd been the driver was reaching into his pocket, pulling out a mobile phone. He looked at the screen for a second, then rose quickly out of the chair, heading into the bathroom. The other man looked towards him, a puzzled look on his face, then went back to packing the last of his things.

John suddenly realised what was going on.

"He's running for it," he half-shouted, shooting out of his chair and out the door before any of the others had time to react. He didn't even realise none of the others were following him as he rushed into the hallway. There he saw the other team crouched outside the door to the room with the two targets in it. Figuring they had that exit covered, he rushed the other way to the service stairs. From the layout of the room, he figured the bathroom would have a window opening up onto the street.

Hesitating for a moment while debating whether the man would go up or down, he decided to go up since the man might think the building was surrounded. Which, in John's mind, it should have been. How the man had slipped Mycroft's intelligence agents' attention he wasn't sure, but then it seemed the man had been higher up the Moriarty gang than the one in the room, so maybe he had learned a trick or two from Moriarty himself. Enough, at least, for Mycroft to underestimate him.

John felt a small thrill at the thought of getting a chance of crossing metaphorical blades with a man like that. If only Sherlock had been there...

He pushed the thought away quickly and started up the stairs. He didn't have to go far before he reached a door leading out onto the roof. When he opened it, a bullet pinged off the doorframe, making him drop into a crouch. He saw a shadow move against the brighter sky on the other side of the roof and scrambled out the door, quickly closing it behind him to prevent the other from disappearing down it later. He crawled across the roof to seek cover behind a large air vent, pulling his gun out and forcing the breath slowly in and out of his lungs to get his body under control and in peak battle state.

He heard a small noise behind him and peeked around the corner of the vent, only to have another bullet slam into the ground a few feet from him. This time he saw the flare of the other man's muzzle and he didn't waste a moment returning fire. A patter of feet across the roof told him he hadn't hit the man, though, and he ran across the roof in the direction of the footsteps, crouched low to hide behind the vents that dotted the roof, being grateful for the cover they offered while hating the cover they offered his enemy. He heard a creak from the door and turned his head, a flash of light showed someone had come out of it. He could see a tall, black-clad figure crouching next to the vent nearest to the door and figured it was one of Mycroft's men coming to his aid.

Another shot pinged off the side of the vent he was hiding behind, and he started across the roof to the next. The shot turned out to be a ruse, though; as he left his cover, another shot rang out and he felt as if a horse had kicked him in the ribs. Although the bulletproof vest saved his life, the force of the bullet was still enough to thrown him to the ground, gasping for air. A second later, Moriarty's man was upon him, kicking his gun from his hand and ripping the helmet and balaclava off his head. He placed a knee on John's chest, pinning him to the ground.

"I like to see who I'm killing," the man hissed, then froze for a moment as he looked John in the face.

"Well, look if it isn't our good Dr. Watson. Nice to meet you again, it's been far too long," the man continued, an evil grin on his face.

"The pleasure's all yours," John hissed back through gritted teeth, fighting to get his breath back.

"I'm sure it is. It was such a disappointment not to kill you last time, but things have changed since then. No one can save you now. It will be such a pleasure to take you out, just like Moriarty took out the great Sherlock Holmes." The man chuckled. "Oh, if he knew that his great _sacrifice_ had been in vain..."

John frowned in puzzlement.

"Oh!" the man continued. "You don't know, do you? You don't know why he died...?"

"What are you talking about?" John asked through gritted teeth.

"Your _friend_," the man sneered at the word, "Died to save you. Moriarty left orders – if Sherlock Holmes died, we were to let you go. We had men on you, on that copper, on your old landlady. I, myself, had you in my crosshairs, but the orders were clear, so I let you go."

John's mind was racing. Sherlock had died to save them? It all suddenly fell into place – the call, Sherlock jumping to his death even though Moriarty was already dead at that point... _You stupid idiot, why didn't you tell me? _He couldn't be angry with his friend, though – if anything, the grief deepened at the thought of what Sherlock had sacrificed, had been _willing _to sacrifice for them. And with that thought came a determination not to let the sacrifice be in vain.

He pushed off the roof, putting all his strength into tipping the other man off him. They rolled across the roof, neither really getting the upper hand, then the man suddenly pulled a knife from his pocket, flicking it open in an instant and holding it to John's throat. John managed to stop his movement a second before he speared himself on it, freezing in a crouch on one knee.

The man grinned at him. "Didn't see that coming, did you, Johnny boy? Are you ready to meet your precious Sherlock?" He held the knife to John's throat and forced him down on his back on the roof, placing his other hand on John's chest and putting all his weight on it to keep him down.

The man's lips split in a satisfied grin and he pulled his hand back to strike the killing blow across John's throat, but in that instant John's gun came sliding across the roof and straight into his hand. He didn't hesitate a moment; he grabbed it and in one fluid moment pulled it up against the man's chest and fired. The man died instantly, falling down on top of John. John pushed the body off and lay there for a moment, trying to get his breath back after the rush of adrenaline that had burst through him during the fight.

He suddenly heard footsteps approaching and he rolled over, gun in hand, to face the figure approaching him. It was the tall black-clad figure that he had seen earlier. He realised it had to be he who had slid the gun across the roof to him during the fight. The man bent down and reached out a hand to help him get up off the roof. John gratefully accepted, feeling exhausted all of a sudden.

When he had been pulled to his feet, the other man didn't let go of his hand. Instead, he held it for a moment as if in deep thought, then a familiar voice said, "We'd better take care of those powder burns, don't you think?"

John fainted. Although he tried to deny it later, there was no other way to describe the instant blackness that overwhelmed his mind when he heard those words. It lasted only an instant, then he was awake again, the other man – _Sherlock? Could it be, or had he imagined it, had his mind finally caved in? _– crouching over him. The man reached out a hand to him again, but this time John refused, getting to his feet slowly, breathing heavily, mind racing. He reached out a trembling hand to pull off the other's balaclava, scared of what he might find, scared of what he might not find.

He dared not believe his eyes when he finally pulled the mask off and Sherlock's familiar features appeared, although a little paler and more worn than he remembered.

"Hello, John," Sherlock said.

John started shaking, his entire body trembling like a leaf in the wind. "But... How...?"

"I had to. It's like he said, they would've killed you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, if I hadn't... disappeared."

John shook his head, tears leaking from his eyes. He felt like crying, like laughing, all at the same time. The rational part of him told him he might be in shock.

"John..." Sherlock's voice almost broke on the word.

"You...are... a bloody... idiot." John shook his head again, knocking his clenched fists against Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock laughed a small laugh, John thought he caught a glimpse of tears in his eyes. He finally gave in, all the pent-up anger and grief of the last four months breaking through his carefully-constructed barriers and he pulled Sherlock into a tight hug, holding on for dear life, trying his best not to sob as the reality, the fact that Sherlock was _back, alive,_ _here_ sifted through his consciousness.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then he returned the hug, patting John gently on the back. "I'm so sorry, John. I am so sorry," he said in a strained voice.

John finally pulled back but kept holding on to Sherlock's arms, looking at him, really looking, a frown on his face. "But where... How...?" So many questions were fighting to be asked, he had _seen _Sherlock fall to his death, had felt his pulseless wrist, seen the blood pooling around his broken head...

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything, Mycroft's voice echoed across the roof. "Hold it, right there!"

A mischievous grin spread on Sherlock's face. He winked at John, then turned around. "Hello, dear brother," he said.

Mycroft, for once, was at a lack for words. He stared at Sherlock as if unable to believe his eyes, then he composed himself, smiling his crooked smile. "So it _was _you." He walked closer, putting his gun back in his pocket.

"I owe you something," Sherlock said.

"Yes, an explanation would..." Mycroft didn't get any further as Sherlock put a right hook straight into his face. John thought he heard bone break at the impact. "That's for messing with John's head," he said.

In that moment, more of Mycroft's men started coming out the door from the stairs, heading towards the three of them.

Sherlock turned back towards John. "Get your breath back yet?" The mischievous grin was back on his face.

"Ready when you are," John replied with an answering grin, and the two of them took off across the roof, heading towards the roof of the building next door and from there onwards towards Baker Street.

Towards home.

_The end_


End file.
